Goodnight, Mr Carson
by spokethewind
Summary: An AU fic in which a little boy comes to stay with Charles and Elsie Carson during the autumn of 1939.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: Wow, it has been a while and I apologize profusely for my absence! Many months ago, I came up with this story that's loosely based off of a book titled **_**Good Night, Mr. Tom**_**. Wonderful, phenomenal book. If you've read it, you'll know where this is headed (insert SHAMELESS excuse to give our heroes a child here).  
**

**While this story is of an AU variety, I hope to keep it as close to the show as I can. I'm sure I've taken a couple of liberties, and I can only hope they're not too intolerable. We start off in the summer of 1939. Charles and Elsie are retired, have been married nearly a year and are about the age they would be at the end of Season 5.  
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**Obviously, no spoilers what-so-ever. If you happen to have an opinion about this story, and think I should continue or trash it, please let me know!**

* * *

"Charles,"

She is chewing on her bottom lip as she mumbles his name while reading the paper. He's learned her tones now, learned how to decipher her mood from just a couple of words, the lilt of her voice. He likes that he doesn't need to see her face to know what she's thinking, how she's feeling.

He grunts his reply, knowing she is distracted by something.

A silence fills the air, one that he's surprisingly unfamiliar with. They've become so familiar with their new life – although, truth be told, it wasn't all that new. Her last name was new, eating her cooking was new. Taking care of a small garden, polishing his own silver, sharing a bed; all new adventures that had been successfully absorbed into daily routine. They still quarreled; it was in their nature to do so; but never heated arguments. Not like they used to have at Downton. He has become more agreeable in retirement; although perhaps, he thinks to himself, it's she who has made him this way.

She's taking her time, carefully considering her words. It's unusual for her to take so long to find her reply. Elsie was never prone to blurting her thoughts aloud, but then again, she rarely took this long to find her voice. He thinks back suddenly to all the times she's said things that he only thought. Things he never had the courage to say aloud. She was bold, is bold; much more than he.

It was she that said it was okay to live a little; who had offered her hand to him. She, who had first moved past simply holding hands. She leant forward and kissed him, one night in his pantry, and let out the first soft moan. Perhaps their relationship wasn't precisely modeled from those in romantic novels, but it was how they operated. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Elsie had admitted soon after their marriage that she had been terribly nervous when she offered her hand. One of their first nights alone in their new house, while she was snuggled into his chest, she quietly laughed and confessed to him how her heart pounded as she uttered the words. How her hand was slightly clammy – though, he replied, he hadn't noticed. She had slipped a button on his pajama top then; her fingers gently resting on his stomach. _I was so afraid of your response._ He tightened his grip then, the sudden thought seizing his heart; they would not be lying together at that moment, if not for her courage.

He isn't sure if he should remind her that he is still awaiting her reply, or if he should let her find her own. Rushing things had never been an asset of his. In fact, his grandmother had often told him that nothing good came of a quick response. While he may have lived a bit faster in his youth, he had most certainly slowed, especially once meeting Elsie. He decided very early on that he wanted to appreciate every minute detail of Elsie Hughes. Every laugh. Every look. Every touch. Every argument. She was held in the highest regard, no other woman ever came close.

When he had kissed her, there was no rushing to tear each other's clothes off. Well, he muses, at least not from him. She had divested him of his livery with such speed and dexterity that he wanted to ask her how she was proficient in such a manner. But then she started doing such wonderful things with her mouth that he nearly forgot how to breathe.

He smiles at the memory. The paper besides him rustles. She's folding it in an untidy fashion, placing it in front of him, resting it gently on his half eaten sandwich.

She's still chewing that lip as his eyes lock on to hers, questioning. Silently asking whatever could be the matter.

She points to an illustration.

'WOMEN WANTED FOR EVACUATION SERVICE. OFFER YOUR SERVICES TO YOUR LOCAL COUNCIL.'

He returns his gaze to her, eyes wide. Her bottom lip is practically white with the pressure of her teeth. The fear, the hesitancy is evident in her eyes. She appears almost guilty at what she's presented to him. He opens his mouth to quip his reply, but closes it quickly. Better to read on, to try to understand what she's asking.

Though, he knows. He knows _exactly_ what she's asking and why she's asking it. He's seen it advertised in the paper now for over a month, has seen her expression of longing whenever an advertisement caught her eye.

'Due to the inevitable declaration of war, children living in the southern and eastern cities of England will soon be evacuated to the countryside. Citizens of rural England are being asked to do their part – for the war effort!'

He stares dumbly at the paper. She had asked him about 'going another way' once. Of course he had thought about it, and she freely admitted that she did. _Sometimes_. He has a feeling that she's thought about it much more than he's ever allowed himself. The discussion of children was a different matter. They had talked about it three times. Twice, she only remarked that it would have been nice, a small smile gracing her features. The third time happened late at night, while they were sitting side by side on the settee. He was reading and she was knitting some small thing for one of Anna's children. It was nearly time to retire for the night, when he suddenly felt her shoulders shake. Heard a small sniffle.

She was staring into the fire with glassy eyes, hands still knitting away as if they were completely unaware that their owner was in turmoil. He stilled her hands, gently taking the slightly damp needles and yarn, and laid them on the floor. A sob escaped her and his arms were immediately around her, bringing her to his chest.

_It's not fair._ She had cried, over and over. It was the first time he had truly seen her cry. She cried on their wedding day, and a few other times, over deaths or births. But, there were never many tears. Those cries weren't of a dramatic fashion. This was different. He had never seen her cry for herself. For him. For what could never be.

The fire in the hearth was nothing more than glowing embers when her crying finally subsided to hiccups. She was clinging to his shirt so tightly, so child-like and suddenly, he had to know, wanted to know everything. He asked her what she would have wanted. _A boy,_ she answered nasally. _A boy named…_ she trailed off. Said she didn't know because she wanted his opinion. The rest of the night was all about soothing her. They decided to choose a name. She'd laugh at some of his suggestions, and his brows would furrow together when she'd suggest a Gaelic name that he couldn't properly pronounce.

They settled on Benjamin – though it was quite the fight. She only settled if his middle names could be Finlay Charles.

_He would have had your hair._

_Only if he had your nose._

Her audible swallow brings him back to the present, and he risks a glance. Her hands are loosely clasped together now, her finger slowly tracing her wedding ring. He inhales sharply, lips drawing together in anticipation of an answer, a frown gracing his features. He may be able to read her, but she's been able to read him long before. She's had decades to perfect it. So, she knows what he's about to say and does her best to defend her position.

"I know it's not our idea of retirement, but it is for the war effort. And I'm sure the child wouldn't stay for very long."

"You forget how long the last war was."

"Yes, but once we have the Germans on retreat, I'm sure it would be safe for the evacuated children to return to their families."

He cocks an eyebrow at her and she averts her gaze. She's being submissive, and he doesn't like it. She's never acted this way before and it's troubling him; more than he's willing to acknowledge. He's used to her constantly challenging him, undermining him in some instances. Used to her being short with him, giving him the silent treatment if she deemed it necessary. He finds himself missing her temper – at least there he would know what to expect, how to react.

"We're not exactly young, Elsie," he tries, gently.

She raises her gaze to meet his, lets out a shaky breath.

"I know."

"What if the child's parents died in a bombing? What if we get the child who doesn't have any family left once the war's over? We'll be dead before it reaches adulthood."

"Don't speak like that."

"Perhaps you won't, but I certainly would be. You're quite a few years younger than me, you know."

She flinches and he knows she's chewed too hard on her lip.

"And then there's the cost. We'd have to buy a bed, clothes, toys. What do children even play with now-a-days? We don't know where to start with a child. I can hardly even remember being a child."

She's staring hard at her sandwich now, blinking rather rapidly and it's slowly torturing him inside. He doesn't want to tell her 'no.' He made a silent vow when he married her to never tell her 'no' again. If she wanted a camel, he'd find a way. A dog or a cat. He had been expecting her to ask for a pet, especially after her breakdown, but it never came. Elsie rarely asked for anything and even then, nothing out of the ordinary. What he wanted for a meal. If he'd fancy a walk. If he was ready for bed, with that lovely look on her face…

"Elsie, it can't replace the one we'll never have."

He regrets it the minute it's spoken. It's too harsh, too devastating, and she's already so disappointed at his initial reaction. He waits for her response; a tongue lashing, a sob, a smack to his face – he deserves it all. Instead he is rewarded with cold silence. He watches as she slowly scoots her chair back, walks out of the kitchen. Listens as her footsteps grow softer until he hears the click of the bedroom door.

His head falls into his hands, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

She's drawing a bath and mentally scolding herself in the process. It's what she does, when she must convince herself she's in the wrong. So, she tells herself she's being foolish. She shouldn't have even asked him the question. She's told herself that dozens of times over the course of the day. _Of course he wouldn't want a child in this house, most especially not a strange child off the street!_ Looking at it practically, she wouldn't want that either. It would be a lot of work, and to be honest, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to take on such a challenge. But, perhaps with his enthusiastic agreement, they would have decided that it could work and would have managed it well together. Taught the child all sorts of wonderful things. Loved it as if it were their own. He would have spoiled it rotten with sweets and stories; taught it cricket and football. She would hold it at night, when it was afraid of the unknown, sang it lullabies, played with its toys.

It was a silly idea. And it most definitely would not replace the one they could never have.

_Tomorrow,_ she tells herself as she sinks into the bath. _Tomorrow I'll move on. Just a silly notion,_ she repeats in her head over and over, like a mantra. _Just a silly, silly notion._

There's a soft knock at the door. Even if she were back at Downton, she'd know that knock anywhere. Her heart usually soared whenever she heard it, but tonight it was unwelcomed, unwanted. She had spent the majority of her day in their room, attempting to read but her thoughts always went back to that imagined child. Charles had spent his day outside in the garden, probably thinking how ridiculous she's been. Dinner was terse, she never replied when he asked what she did all day. _I wasted it, and burnt the stew._ Of course he wanted to take a bath. Of course he wanted to come in _now._

She didn't bother looking up as he opened the door. What a sight she must be, chin under the water, staring blankly at the opposite end of the tub, not even attempting to hide herself. Why did it matter, he's seen all of her. They've been married nearly a year, if he's missed something of hers now, it's his own bloody fault.

He makes his way to the toilet. Closes the lid, takes a seat.

They stay like that for too long. She's getting a kink in her neck, but she can't budge. She's already lost the war, but she'd be damned if she moved first in this standoff.

He sighs and rubs his face.

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I said, about being a replace–"

Her heart clenches, "Don't. Please. Don't say it."

More silence. She knows his fingers are playing his thumb. One by one. Pinky, ring, middle, index. Pinky, ring, middle, index. Over and over. She doesn't need to see it, knows that it's happening. He's uncomfortable now, and it's his habit. She assumes it's a self-soothe technique that he's had ever since he was quite young, but it doesn't matter.

"May I speak freely?"

"Oh for God's sake Elsie, of course you can. You're my wife." His voice is harsh, but he is tired. She cannot fault him, for she feels the same way.

"I know it wouldn't be a replacement. And I know that we wouldn't truly know what to expect. But, if I could, I'd have a child with you today. Even if we are old. Even if we can't properly throw it as high in the air as we'd like, or run after it as fast as we could have if we were younger. Even if we died before it saw its eighteenth birthday," Her chest was tight as she thought of all the what-ifs. All the hypotheticals. She hated them, wanted to get rid of them, tried her best to bury them but they'd never vanish. They would always remain, lurking in the shadows.

"I'm sure we can give the child back to the corporation or its family, if it doesn't like us or if it's too hard on us. I'm sure they'd understand. It's just… I want this child, Charles. I'll never have my own. But I'd like to see what it's like. The visits from Master George and Miss Sybbie, the few hours spent watching the Bates' children are only a small window into that world. Perhaps, if I can hold this child, give it love and affection; perhaps it will heal my heart - just the slightest bit. I've tried; for a long time, to stop thinking about what could have been, but it's hard. It's hard to immediately turn your mind onto something else. No matter how much I try not to think about it, it's always there. Looming in the background. Haunting my dreams."

He's staring intently at her now.

"You _dream_ of having a child, Elsie?"

"Do you? Have you _ever_?"

He's flustered. He doesn't open up very easily, most especially when he's put on the spot. For Charles to open up, it requires him to think long and hard about his emotions. Map out what he will say.

"Tell me the truth. Please, Charles."

She needs to hear it from him. If he's ever dreamed of holding a tiny hand, tying a small shoe.

"Yes, I have. Not very often, I have to admit. But more than usual since marrying you."

She closes her eyes, lets go of the breath she's been holding. He stands, uncomfortably and heads for the door.

"I'll draw my own bath when you've finished."

* * *

It's late. They've stayed up, awkwardly reading their books, though she suspects neither of them have read more than a page. The lights have been turned off; they're on their respective sides of the bed, both lying on their backs, hands resting at their sides.

She sighs. Feels his hand slowly move to find hers. When they first married, this was how he showed that he wanted to hold her. Quietly, silently, asking permission. It was innocent enough, until she pressed too close against him; until he kissed that one spot along her neck. Most nights ended in passion. It was lovely, everything she could have ever asked for.

_Not tonight._ She moves her hand gently, to rest across her stomach. Out of his reach. Feels his hand slowly move back to its natural position.

They remain that way, side by side. He's been rejected and she knows he's hurting. Knows he understands why she's rebuked him and this hurts her just as much. It hurts her to act this way towards him – when he's done nothing wrong, been guilty of nothing other than being pragmatic – a valued trait to have. The more she dwells on that fact, the more upset she becomes with herself. If she weren't so damn stubborn, she'd apologize for her request, her behavior, her _complete _disregard for his attitude on such a substantial topic. But, she is who she is. And while she can't help what her body will do when it's asleep; _hold him tightly, apologize for her callousness_; until she is unconscious, she must be strong. Five minutes pass. Five more. Her eyelids are heavy; her mind begins its slow descent into a fog.

He's calling her name. He's saying something and she can't understand what he's said through the sleep. She tries to gather enough mental ability to ask him to repeat himself. His voice has taken on a rare tone, a softer tone he would use when speaking about his childhood, his mother. He pauses, and she is thankfully wide awake now, holding her breath for what he's about to say next.

"Elsie, it's no great secret that you often thrust me into things I'd rather not do. You've done it the moment you had the authority to do so. You meddle in my life, you tell me that my views on the world are old-fashioned; you make me question myself more often than I ever wish to. Makes me feel rather glum, whenever I have those thoughts."

Oh, _God_. As if she could feel worse! Taking a breath, she starts planning her apology, "Char–"

He reaches out his hand, interrupting her thoughts as he gently pats her arm.

"But, I've thought on it, Elsie. I've thought about it all day. I'm not sure I'd call it fun, but I think it could be an adventure. I don't believe people at our age should be taking adventures, but I know you don't agree with me. You say it keeps people young, and maybe it does. And the more I think about my life, my life with you; the more I realize that you've never been wrong. You may have annoyed me, pestered me, maybe even occasionally insulted me, but admittedly, you've never steered me wrong. Even with Grigg."

She feels him turn in bed. He's lying on his side, facing her. She cannot believe the words coming from his mouth. He is usually bolder at night, with his words and most especially his actions, but this kind of revelation is a rare treat.

"Elsie? You must promise to be honest and open with me, as I will be with you. And that if it's too much for either of us, that we will say so. There's no shame in admitting if it's too much. There's no shame in trying."

"No, never shame in that. Of course I won't force you to do anything you don't want to."

"That's never stopped you before, but I appreciate the sentiment. Speaking of, I may ask you to hold my hand on occasion while I try to steady myself on this strange, new course."

"I'll hold whatever you'd like me to."

"Mrs. Carson, let's try to keep this conversation suitable for just a bit longer."

"Don't be daft!"

"Promise me, Elsie. That if it's too much, I can say so. And you won't chide me for it?"

She turns to face him and her hands find their way around his neck, slowly pulling him flush against her. She presses a kiss beneath his chin. "Of course, my love. I absolutely promise."

He lets out a soft groan, hands instinctively finding her hips. Gently pressing them, urging her to roll onto her back; but she's far too busy kissing his neck to respond. He drops his mouth to her ear, gently nipping her earlobe.

"Thank you, Elsie."

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**A/N: You've made it this far! Won't you tell me your thoughts?**


	3. Chapter 3

**There's a bit of history referenced in this chapter, as well as some negative views of inner-city children (but sadly, that's how the majority of people viewed them). I thank each and every one of you for your reviews! They absolutely make my day. I hope you will continue to let me hear your opinions!**

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He thinks this is ludicrous.

They're on their way to Downton, walking side by side. By all accounts, he should be content. She's holding his hand, it's beautiful outside, a delicious treacle tart is waiting for him just over the hill and he isn't expected to do any real work once entering those doors. But, he will never be able to rid his principles. It's absolutely ludicrous to return to your former place of employment without being asked back. As if you regret ever leaving your position, as if you're unhappy with the life you've chosen. It's shameful to go and cause a ruckus and he grows more irritated with each visit, with every step on the well groomed lawn.

She's argued with him in the past about it. Says that they _have_ been asked back; by the downstairs staff, all whom miss them a great deal. He would counter that they were taking advantage of His Lordship's generosity by returning and disrupting the daily running of the house. She'd remind him that they only ever visited on days when the majority of the family were away or doing nothing important, and that they've only ever stayed for a short time. He'd snap that it reflected poorly on them for returning; as if they regretted their decision to leave – a thought he cannot stand. He loves his life, loves the life he's made with her, knows she does just as much. Such a revelation always stopped her dead in her tracks. He has said too much, opened his heart just a tad more than usual and she'd close her mouth, simply stare at him. Contemplate her next move, her next exchange. Instead of carrying on with words or looks, she'd do something extraordinarily kind. Would comb the curl of his hair back, run her thumb along his knuckles, crawl into his lap, kiss him. She always assured him that it didn't look that way to anyone.

He could never believe her. He was certain at least one person mocked their appearance every time they would pop in. Thomas Barrow. It's obvious how much he loves to critique any visit, how he relishes in being derisive to his old leader. Seeing Downton ruled by him was nothing short of agony for Charles. But, for all the pain and anguish he suffered, he knew Elsie felt nothing but absolute joy when seeing their old rooms, their old friends.

She's offered to go alone, quite a number of times as of late. He wouldn't allow that, couldn't. What if they teased her about living with him? What if they all had a joke at his expense? With him there, they'd keep their mouths' shut. Wouldn't say anything to make her feel uncomfortable or awkward. And with him there, he could always defend her if conversation ever took such a turn.

He wonders when he started becoming protective over her – when he decided he wanted to marry her? No, it was long, long before that. After her health scare? Or was it after a seemingly insignificant moment? A grin breaks out over his face. Elsie is the last person who would ever need protecting. Has she noticed how defensive he's become? He assumes that she has, assumes that she's noticed long before he realized what he was doing. He feels her squeeze his hand.

"Warming up yet?"

"No."

"I'm sure you will in time."

"Elsie, we've been coming here for nearly a year. If I'm not comfortable by now, I don't think I ever will."

He watches her eyes roll heavenward; her cheeks puff out in frustration.

"I'm not asking for much. And we needed to come to get ideas and guidance for the child that will be living in our house in a little over one week."

"I still don't understand why we couldn't have simply asked Anna to come over one evening for tea."

"Because she is married with a family of her own. And I'm sure she'd rather spend her time with them as opposed to settling the nerves of two middle aged people who don't know the first thing in raising a child!"

* * *

His treacle tart is warm; delightful as it's always been. They're sitting in their old chairs; nothing looks out of the ordinary. There's still a mark in the table from where Ms. O'Brien accidentally dropped her cigarette. The kitchen still produces the same smells; the hallway is still painted the same color. The people that surround them now are all still the same. Mrs. Patmore, her hand on Elsie's arm, is sitting as close to her as the chairs allow. Anna is sitting on his left, Daisy standing between them.

It's like an interrogation every time they return. How is married life? How are you? Did you try that new recipe I gave you? And how are you, Mr. Carson? What have you been doing with your free time? Incessant questions that only women enjoy asking and answering. Sometimes he thinks of very inappropriate answers to give. _We find we spend a lot of our free time in bed._ Or, _Mrs. Carson hasn't tried that new recipe because I was feeling quite mischievous and thoroughly distracted her so badly that she burnt the cake._ He hums to himself in pleasure as he takes a bite of the tart.

"Have you heard about the treaty Germany and the Soviet Union have signed?"

"No, what's happened?"

"They've signed a pact together to fight the opposition."

"Oh, what a terrifying prospect. I can't believe we're about to fight another war."

"It doesn't seem so long since the last one."

"I wonder how long this one will last?"

"Those poor men; about to condemn themselves to death by fighting another useless war."

"Don't say such things!"

"But it's true!"

"What will happen to their wives and their children?"

"Oh, the poor dears. I shudder to think!"

"And their ideas for the children! Evacuating them to the countryside. Can you believe it?"

"Because they truly think our cities will be bombed?"

"Yes, how dreadful. At least removing the children will ease some of the burden for their unfortunate mothers."

Charles glances at Elsie after hearing the subject. She's busying herself with her hands, watching them with intent. They hadn't discussed how the subject would be breached, who all needed to be informed of their decision. The others have taken no notice, going on about how the country could manage shipping the poor, filthy children all around it. Wondering who on earth would take in the children with their awful behavior and parasite-ridden hair.

He knocks his knee against hers, comforting her the best way he can. Watches as her gaze slowly travels to meet his. He clears his throat.

"Actually, we will be taking one in."

The women turn their gazes to him, mouths slightly agape.

"You?" Daisy's hands immediately fly up to her mouth, momentarily forgetting who she was speaking to.

A small smile graces Elsie's features.

"Yes. It's partly why we've come today. We wanted to ask Anna her advice about children. But, I see no reason why our questions shouldn't be directed to anyone else."

The amount of chatter that followed could have woken the dead. At first, Charles attempted to follow the onslaught, but there were so many questions asked; mundane questions that didn't seem to matter to him, but seemingly were a matter of life or death to the women in front of him and he couldn't keep up. He turned his attentions to the dwindling tart before him. He didn't dislike any of the women in this room, he merely disliked when they were all together and excited about something. When the answers from Elsie didn't suffice their growing curiosity, they turned their undivided attentions on him.

"Which do you prefer, Mr. Carson? A boy or a girl?"

"Are you excited to be hosting a child?"

"Do you want an older child, or younger?"

Before Charles could even answer, Thomas Barrow entered the room, the sneer on his face unmistakable.

"I don't believe it. Mr. Carson has returned to Downton! It's been _so long_ since your last visit! You haven't returned to ask for your old job back, have you? I do hope retired life hasn't become boring for you."

Charles never did expect a warm welcome from him, but his cheek was nevertheless surprising.

"No it has not; it's better than I ever envisioned, _Thomas_. We are here solely to visit our friends and make sure the standards that Downton _had_ are still being maintained." The tone Charles' voice took on hadn't lost one bit of its authoritativeness.

"It's _still_ Mr. Barrow, but you should know that, seeing as that was how you addressed me long before you left. I suppose one's memory goes downhill quickly in retirement? As for the standards, they are not only being maintained, but are better than they ever were."

"And if I were to ask his Lordship, would he agree with your declaration?"

A snort erupts from Mrs. Patmore, "Not bloody likely!"

"On the contrary, Mrs. Patmore! He would, happily. Considering the changes that have occurred with the estate and the personnel, he and the family knew that Downton couldn't function properly without adapting to those changes. And since you're so against such activities of any kind, they viewed it a relief that you finally retired. Now, Downton can run at the proper level that it should have years ago."

Charles' blood was boiling. Putting Barrow in his place wasn't as easy as it was in the past, primarily because he no longer answered to Charles. It was also becoming a challenge for him to keep his temper in check. Feeling Elsie's eyes on him, he was loath to allow her to come to his defense, but was out of biting remarks and was awfully close to either storming from the room, or shouting out language that the ladies certainly needn't hear. He wisely chose to bite his tongue. Hard.

"Was there something you wanted Mr. Barrow, or were you simply popping in for another one of your friendly welcomes?" Charles cast a glance over to Elsie, giving her a small smile of appreciation.

"No," Thomas retorted, grabbing some papers off the stand, "I was just wondering who had the audacity to sit in my chair."

"The man who trained you for the job. I daresay he has every right to sit in this chair while it's not being used!"

"Well, I would like to use it now."

"We were just getting ready to use Mrs. Jones' sitting room, weren't we? I have some things in there for Mr. and Mrs. Carson," Anna, Charles thought thankfully, hadn't lost one bit of her quick-thinking. He knows it's a skill she's picked up from Elsie, and has a knack for using it at the right moment.

Elsie stands, smiling at Anna. "That's right. We're ever so grateful to you."

"Don't mention it."

He follows closely behind the women like a lost dog, reeling from the excruciating encounter with Barrow. Every visit he seems to become more bitter, more intent on tormenting Charles. He feels more miserable than ever before, and while he's grateful for Anna's swift diversion of the situation, all he wants is a moment of solitude.

"How is Mrs. Jones getting on? I don't envy her position with Mr. Barrow at the helm."

"She's doing well. You'd be surprised, but she can hold her own against him. And surprisingly, he has softened a bit since you've left. I daresay he's even become a bit more agreeable."

"You'd never know it when we pay a visit."

Elsie gives Charles a sympathetic look, "Why don't you step outside. Get some fresh air? I think the conversation Anna and I are about to have would only bore you. We won't be long."

He's truly indebted to Elsie's intuition. With a small smile and a nod, he makes his way toward the back door. Fresh air would be nice; a stroll to the pond would be lovely. He needs to gather his thoughts, regain his composure. Calm down.

"I hope I didn't scare you off for good, Mr. Carson!"

"On the contrary, Mr. Barrow! You only make me want to visit more often."

Sarcasm. He's learned it well from his wife.


	4. Chapter 4

**We're almost there! Half of the next chapter is already written and I am slightly anxious to post it in the upcoming days (my anxiety has nothing to do with the child, and all to do with something else entirely) but let's not get ahead of ourselves. I did my homework – Anna's children's names are all listed as popular baby names of the 30s and 40s. As always, your reviews literally keep my spirits up and this story going. They mean the world to me. I hope you'll continue to share your thoughts and opinions!**

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"Have you both given any thought to which you'd prefer?"

She's having tea with Anna, trying not to appear as an uneducated, old woman. She's heard that boys are easier to raise than girls. Has seen it first hand with the ladies of the house, has _lived_ it while she and her sister grew up – so much fighting, bickering, emotions. Heard from her sister through letters, that raising her nephews was practically a walk in the park. _Of course the boys fight, _she wrote_, but after a quick tussle, things are right with the world. The complete opposite of our spats, Elsie. We were hostile for days!_

"We're thinking of a boy. I've heard from my sister that they're a bit easier to manage than girls."

_Besides,_ she thinks with an inward grin_, I've seen Charles with girls. I know how he smiles, how gentle he is with them. How he thinks of them as fragile creatures that need his protection, affection. It's time to unlock a whole new side, new moments and memories._

"I'm not entirely sure about that. William and Johnny tend to get into all kinds of trouble."

"Oh?"

"Yes. They're always getting dirty, tearing their clothes, roughhousing. I love them, but they can be demanding at times. They really do require my constant attention."

"I see," She's a bit crestfallen. She had gotten her hopes up imagining a well-behaved little boy with an immaculate part down his hair, more interested in reading and his schooling than the outdoors – but that was how she imagined Charles, and that was just that – an image. Hearing such a straightforward response from Anna was a bit unexpected, but it's what she wanted to hear. She needed the honesty, and she was grateful.

"Don't let my answer deter you, Mrs. Carson. I'll admit they're usually in better moods day to day than Irene. Not to mention, easier to please. And boys together are much different than one boy alone," Anna pauses, taking a sip of her tea. "Do you think you'd like an older boy?"

"No, Mr. Carson and I think a younger child would be easier to take in. Easier to teach, easier to handle. We don't want one that's nearing the woeful stages of puberty."

Anna bites back a smile, "You're right. That's the toughest period. William will be there in a few years, but we're already dealing with the sudden shifts of his mood."

"Oh, dear. I remember my sister and I fought nearly every hour of the day. It was all a bit too much for my mother. After a while, she made sure we did our chores as far away from each other as possible."

The ladies share a laugh. "You love each other now, right?"

"Of course. But the miles of separation ensure that we do!"

* * *

Her talk with Anna has taken longer than expected, but she feels much more confident in taking in a child – no, not a child; a boy. There's no use in trying to deny it, they'll be taking in a boy. A little boy, hopefully one who will come to love them perhaps not as parents or grandparents, but will love them for who they are, what they've done for him. She doesn't like to think they're sacrificing part of their lives, though she knows Charles thinks exactly that. They're merely enhancing them. And she knows they're doing the right thing. In time, Charles will come to understand and appreciate that. Her excited thoughts accompany her as she exits out the back door and into the courtyard, eager to tell Charles everything that's been discussed.

Only, he's nowhere to be found.

Not a cause for concern – _as if Charles Carson would ever run_ _away_ – more of an annoyance. She thinks of where he could possibly be. Walking back to their cottage? In the woods? The cricket pitch? After a moment, she realizes there are nearly a dozen places he could be. But, she feels confident he's in one area in particular. An area they've both grown to appreciate over the years.

The pond.

Not only the place where she shared a tender moment with Mr. Bates so many years ago. It's become an area that has progressively grown into a favorite resting spot for her and Charles. Initially, when they could manage a few hours away from the house together early on in their courtship, they would find their way to the pond. It was close enough for them to walk to, as opposed to a walk into the village for tea, yet it was far enough away from the house that Charles felt comfortable enough to shed his butler persona. They'd spend their hours laying side by side, talking of anything and everything. That is, they usually spent it that way. Sometimes they'd dip their feet in, very lightly splash one other. Occasionally, things would get a bit heated, and there wasn't much talking involved. Once, he tried his hand at fishing with a hastily made rod (not even a nibble).

It was one of her fondest memories.

Rounding the bend, she hears distinct plops in the water. She finds him sitting at the edge of the pond, a stoic look on his face, skipping rocks. Something she knows his mother frowned upon when he was a child – saying that he'd hurt the fish doing something so foolish.

"What would your mother say, Charles?"

"Fish may not be the brightest creatures, but I believe they know to get out of the way of a sinking rock."

"They could be setting up safe shelters for the wounded down there, Charles. Trying to find loved ones; thinking their world is coming to an end! Have you no remorse for the suffering you've caused?"

He turns to her with a wry grin, looking her over.

"I apologize."

"That's better. Now let's have a sit down and I can tell you all about my chat with Anna."

"But, your dress –"

"That's why we have a wash day."

"At least let me put my overcoat down."

"Alright."

They sit amicably side by side, staring out over the pond. The sun is setting, filling the sky with hues of orange and pink. It was a rare treat for them to share a sunset before they were married; Elsie only recalls it happening twice – once during his proposal. Charles holds out his hand to her. She scoots closer and she gladly takes it, intertwining their fingers.

"I know we've discussed it, and I'm certain that a little boy is best. A young boy, or any young child would be easier to teach, easier to…"

"Mold to our standards?"

"Yes, but don't expect too much. This isn't Master George we're taking in."

"No, of course not."

"And I think it will be nice. Fun, even. Anna's told me what little boys like, so we should probably visit a toy shop before Friday. Although maybe we should wait until he's in our charge, let him tell us what he likes."

She feels Charles' hum of agreement and leans over, gently kissing his cheek, her thumb lightly rubbing his along his knuckle. Content with watching the dwindling sunset, she rests her head on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you've recuperated after your encounter with Thomas."

"Killing all those innocent fish helped."

"Charles! Honestly, I wish you wouldn't take what he says to heart. He's just trying to get a rise from you."

"Unfortunately, he seems to excel at that."

"Only because you're letting him. You mustn't. He may not work for you now, but you'll always be the better man. You still are, even in that house. It's evident the minute you walk through the door. It's evident by the way our friends talk to us, and about us. You should be proud of the man you are, and not allow anyone to take that pride from you."

She glances up to sees his small smile and knows she's effectively made him feel a bit better about himself. Seeing him smile is truly one of her favorite things. He owns so many, yet is quite guarded with them. It's a personal victory every time one is flashed across his features. She thinks he still needs a bit more cheering up, and she knows exactly how to treat him.

"Why don't we go to the pub tonight for dinner?"

"The pub? Feeling daring this evening, Mrs. Carson?"

"Perhaps a bit. Perhaps I simply don't want to cook. Perhaps I simply like showing you off to the village."

"That's my line!"

They laugh quietly as they stand and she takes his hand in hers, gently pulling him down the path. The light will just barely hold for their walk to the pub and the promise of cider and food that she doesn't have to cook enables her to keep pace with her husband's long strides.

* * *

**I don't think there was ever a doubt as to the gender that they'd choose. There's 1.4 million stories featuring them and little girls (all so wonderful and sweet) but hardly any with them and a boy. It's time for a change! Hope you're on board with that!**


	5. Chapter 5

**After reading dozens of fics and articles on how to write smut well, I feel even less confident in my abilities. This is NOT smut, but the word breast makes an appearance (yikes). If you aren't cringing by the end, I might not believe you, but I'd love to hear your voice all the same. Really, thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story, or liked or followed. You all bring me such joy. I can only hope this chapter makes up for my ridiculously long absence!**

* * *

"Mmm, what are you doing?" Her voice is thick with sleep, her limbs heavy from a good night's rest. She wasn't expecting it, expected to be up a good part of the night anxious about what the day would bring but she fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. Waking in such a magnificent way brings out a soft, appreciative moan from her. Her very determined husband is resting comfortably between her legs, kissing her behind her ear, his hands roaming her body freely. She stretches out the night's lack of movement; twists, turns, arches her back both to rid the stiffness, and to bring herself closer to her husband's touch.

"You know what I'm doing."

"Yes, but why are you doing it now?" It's not unusual for them to couple first thing in the morning, but it has been a while. She's forgotten how reverently he touches her in the soft glow of the morning light.

"It's our last time."

"Really, Charles. Don't be so dramatic," It's a conversation they've had _multiple_ times in the past few days. Charles feels quite uncomfortable with the idea of making love to his wife while a child sleeps in the room next to theirs, and has felt the need to bring that conviction up any chance he had. If she were completely honest with herself, she shared the same sentiment. However, he needn't know her trepidations. They'd find their way – they certainly wouldn't be the first, nor last.

"I keep telling you, parents find a way. That's why most parents have more than one child."

"Mine didn't." He drops his mouth to her pulse point, nipping and kissing his way along.

"Well, mine did. And you cannot tell me your parents never… again, once they had you."

He raises his gaze to meet hers; the seriousness is evident in his eyes as the assault on her neck is momentarily stopped.

"Elsie, please don't take me down a path I do not wish to envision."

A quiet laugh escapes her, "I'm sorry."

He hums his acknowledgement and busies himself with her neck again. His hands are caressing, exploring her breasts and she threads her fingers through his hair; arches her back with more purpose and lets out a moan.

"Elsie."

"Yes, darling."

"Can we – do you think –"

"Charles we need to be at the hall by half past ten."

"Right, we've plenty of time – it's just… I was hoping…"

She runs her hands down his back, drawing him closer.

"Yes?"

"Well, even if we are able to continue this activity with a youngster in the house," She cannot help herself as her eyes roll heavenward, "We'll have to be… quiet…"

She is thankful he's busy running his finger along her collarbone, eyes intently following his finger, because she cannot stop the smirk that breaks out across her features. _Oh, I know what you want, my man. _He's told her on occasion how much he appreciates it when she's more vocal, and while she's hardly mute – that was only in the beginning. It took the both of them some time to realize that no one would hear them in their house; that they were free to be as open and verbal as they felt – she hardly ever lets go completely.

"You want me to be… loud?"

His eyes find hers and she watches his head slowly nod its approval.

"You don't have –"

"I don't mind. Besides, since this is the last time for the foreseeable future, I'd better make it worth your while."

She watches his brow furrow, his lips purse together, almost in a small pout.

"You're mocking me."

"Perhaps, but I think it'd be nice… losing control. That is, if you can make me."

He lowers his lips to hers, grips her hips, and roughly spreads her legs further apart with his knee, "I don't think _that_ will be a problem."

* * *

The mid-morning sun is shining brightly through the windows of the town hall, its rays gently warming Charles as he stands patiently in line, his wife's arm tightly threaded through his. They are third in line and they've arrived a bit later than desired – wouldn't have, if it weren't for Elsie's incessant need to mentally go over the check list in her mind _seven times_ – but thankfully, they were not _too_ late. He is trying his best not to stare at the group of children, but boredom and curiosity were setting in.

Glancing over, he estimates that there are perhaps twenty children lined up. Boys and girls of varying ages, all rather glum and obviously exhausted. Currently there was a woman sizing up some boys, circling them as she studiously looked them over. Approaching one, she asks his name. Charles watches the boy answer hesitantly as the woman's hand searches for something in his hair.

A billeting officer watches, flabbergasted by the act, "Ma'am, these are children, not animals!"

Charles gently nudges his wife's shoulder, "Don't you dare act like that."

"I would never! Poor dears, they've been through enough as it is."

Their time finally arrives and Charles takes the initiative to answer the billeting officer's questions and fill out a form, knowing his wife wants to spend more time with the children. Hastily completing his form, he makes his way through the hall, stopping just behind her. He watches her stand in front of the boys, looking them over; her gaze not ever reaching the girls in the group. Her mind is working, he could see her eyes narrowing, thinking hard, but not unkindly.

_This is so terribly awkward_. He's very glad it's not up to him to make the decision.

The children look half out of their minds with fear, though he half suspects that has more to do with him standing before them. He tries to smile at one lad, but he knows it comes off as more of a grimace than a kind smile. Inwardly rolling his eyes at his feeble attempt, he forces his gaze on his wife who has crouched down and settled in front of the smallest boy in the group.

He is in his Sunday best, that much is evident. A long sleeved coat and shorts that barely reach his knees. His shoes are intensely shined, and his dark hair is neatly parted to the left. A small pack lay at his feet, which Charles strongly hopes contains socks, as for a reason he cannot imagine, the boy was wearing none. He is a good looking lad, it was no wonder Elsie had stopped to talk to him.

"Hello there." Her voice was extraordinarily gentle and kind. It had been a long time since he'd seen her, heard her speak to a child. While she was usually in her element when dictating orders and running a household, he had to admit she had quite a knack when caring for and speaking to children.

"Hullo Ma'am." The boy glances at her only for a second before immediately ducking his chin.

"What's your name? I can't see it on your card."

"Oh," he awkwardly flips the large card that is pinned to his jacket over. Charles watches the surprise appear on his wife's face – which is quickly replaced by a smile, a smile that tells him this boy is the one.

"Your name's Benjamin?"

"Yes Ma'am, Benjamin Parker."

Charles smiles when he hears the name. _Irony or fate?_ Whichever it was, it's decided to be kind to them today.

"How old are you Benjamin?"

"Five, Ma'am."

_He certainly isn't chatty – that's good. The last thing we need a child that is a nuisance_.

"My, you are a big lad!"

Benjamin looks to the older boys either side of him and gives Elsie a small, confident smile.

"That's what Mummy says. Mummy says I'm big and strong and smart."

"I'll bet you are. I'm happy to meet you, Benjamin. My name is Mrs. Carson. Would you like to come along with me?"

"Where?"

"To my house. You can stay with me and Mr. Carson."

"Who's Mr. Carson?"

Scooting to the side, she waves her hand behind her, beckoning Charles to properly introduce himself. He steps forward, suddenly wondering if he should remain standing or squat down next to his wife. Deciding against squatting; his poor knees don't handle that action as well as they used to; he nods to the little boy before him, granting him a genuine smile.

Any progress his wife has made with the lad seems to evaporate instantly. As soon as the lad stretches his neck far enough to meet Charles' eyes, his face turns to something Charles doesn't entirely recognize. The bashful expression he wore when speaking to his wife has now changed to… fear? Intimidation? Cursing his decision to stand, he immediately squats down, clicking and painful knees be damned.

He'd never forgive himself if he ruined this chance for Elsie.

"Hello, Benjamin. I'm Mr. Carson."

"Hullo, sir."

The lad's wearing a rather sullen expression, though it's hard to see as he's returned his gaze to his shoes. Charles quickly glances over to Elsie, desperately hoping this isn't going to end poorly. Her teeth are working her lip, and he's trusting that she's busy concocting a plan in her head.

"So, Benjamin, would you like to come with us? We have a nice day planned for you."

"What're we gonna do, Mrs. Carson?"

"Well, are you hungry? We thought we might take you out to eat."

The lad's face immediately brightens, a broad grin covering his features.

"Mummy never lets us eat at a restaurant!"

"Well, it's more a pub than a restaurant. Still, it's nice. And then we were thinking maybe taking you to a toy shop and letting you pick out some things that you can play with at our house. We don't have many toys for a big lad such as yourself."

"Really?!"

Charles knows full well the dangers of spoiling a child, but these things seem necessary. And the lad has had a tough few days; it only seems fair to break the ice in a more exciting setting. Perhaps he'll perk up a bit, especially if he and Charles can find some common ground.

"It's rather crowded in here Benjamin, why don't you take my hand while we head out?"

He's knees crack as he stands and he watches Benjamin take Elsie's hand, standing quite close to her. Checking their surroundings before they head out, Charles spots the pack and quickly scoops it up.

"Do you want to carry your pack, lad? Or would you rather I?"

"No! I will! Sir,"

Benjamin takes the pack with his free hand and holds it tightly against his body as Elsie glances back at her husband, giving him a sympathetic expression. As Charles walks forward, he's stopped by a gentle hand on his.

"Give it time; he'll warm up to you."

But what if he doesn't? How could the lad take to his wife like a shot, yet be so utterly frightened or shy or _whatever_ of him? He's never had this happen. Neither the ladies, nor the Bates' children have ever acted this way around him. It's a new and unwelcome experience and now he's guiltily wishing they never took this adventure on.

"Right," he sighs, saying it without conviction as he leads them out of the hall.

It's going to be a _long_ day.

* * *

**This was tough, as the children in Goodnight, Mr. Tom were billeted door to door and simply assigned a person to live with – however I know and have read many accounts that other people chose the children at a village hall, or something similar. The woman combing their hair for lice actually happened in one account. I thought that was so fascinating that I had to include it in my story.**

**Also, the name Benjamin was not very popular in the 30s and 40s (kind of died off for a bit). But, if Elsie ever entertained the thought of her 'children's names,' as some women do, the name would have been popular when she was younger. I mean, I couldn't make the boy's name Timmy after they decided on a name, right?**


	6. Chapter 6

The air is muggy, the streets teeming with people as the three of them meander their way through the throngs. Benjamin clings to Elsie's hand, essentially glued to her side as the small toy shop finally comes into view. Charles quickly walks ahead, opens the door to them both. Elsie's thankful to step inside, get away from the oppressive heat, to be able to give Benjamin a semblance of joy in a day full of unfamiliarity and nerves.

Lunch wasn't a catastrophe, but it was far from ideal. The little lad had to have been starving, which was understandable, however his complete lack of manners were not. It appeared that he had never used a utensil in his life. It didn't matter how many times she gently reminded him to use a fork, Benjamin constantly reverted back to his hands. He used his sleeve to wipe off his face. He chewed with his mouth open. When he finally let out a burp and _giggled _about it, she risked a glance to her husband.

He was horrified. Mortified. And she knew exactly what he was thinking – they were hosting an undignified child.

No matter. All children come this way and most, respectable parents teach them the skills necessary to be successful in life.

She just wasn't expecting to be the one to introduce him to the concept of a napkin.

Mentally shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she glances around the shop, taking in the vast number of toys. It has been _many_ a year since she's set foot in a toy shop – and she's never set foot in one for herself. There was no toy shop in Argyll, not that her parents would have ever allowed their daughters to even look into the shop window. Her only experience came from when her nephews were younger and she bought them a couple of little things on one of her visits during the Christmas holiday. Simple things. Toy blocks for the baby, painted toy soldiers for his older brother. They were terribly polite about getting their toys, and played with them a bit. However, their interest waned dramatically on Christmas morning after discovering a new tin monkey under the tree. The monkey came with a string that when someone stood on one strand, and held the other strand up in the air, the monkey would climb up. It was terribly clever and she was disappointed in herself for not thinking, nor looking for such an ingenious and exhilarating toy.

She is determined not to make the same lapse in judgment again with Benjamin.

"Why don't you take a walk around, Benjamin? See if you can spot a toy that might be fun to have."

He's staring up at her with his eyes wide open, mouth slightly agape and she bends down, lightly brushes his jacket.

"Anything, Mrs. Carson?"

"Yes, my lad. Any toy you want in the whole shop."

Her husband is silent, but she knows he's not happy with the decision. Benjamin hesitates for a moment, clearly overwhelmed with the opportunity but recovers and starts off slowly, heading to an aisle seemingly dedicated to boys.

"I'm not sure on this, Elsie. Look at some of these gadgets. Model train sets, tricycles. There's a sidewalk pedal plane over there – I can't even imagine how expensive that must be."

"Do you know what I had for toys growing up? I had a peg doll that I shared with my sister and my own rag doll. That was it. We didn't even have a toy shop! And the last time I bought toys for my nephews, they were boring old things that were completely disregarded once a shiny, new tin toy appeared. So, I think it'd be nice for him to be able to choose his own toy, something he can really enjoy."

"I'm sorry, Elsie. You're right, it's a nice gesture."

They watch Benjamin for a moment, slowly walking aisle to aisle, picking up toys here and there to look at more closely. Watch him stare longingly at the leather footballs, at the vast array of wind-up tin toys.

"Charles, what sort of toys did you have growing up?"

"Well, let's see. Building blocks, lead soldiers, a train –"

"Good heavens! You had a train?"

"It wasn't very extravagant."

"Those were expensive – What do I mean _were_ – they're still expensive!"

"My grandfather bought me the train. It's not like I went out and bought it! Anyway, that's what I'm concerned about. We can't afford a train set for Benjamin – not unless he'll be content with that as his only toy for the duration of his stay with us!"

"He doesn't strike me as a child who would be interested in model train sets."

"What does that mean? And what sort of toys do you think he'd like? Or need? A toy dinnerware set, perhaps?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Charles. He'd have no need for a toy bouillon spoon."

They share a quiet laugh. Benjamin rounds an aisle and approaches the two of them, quickly catching Elsie's eye, before lowering his gaze to the floor.

"I can't reach some of the toys that are up high. Can you help me?"

"Charles, go and help him."

Her husband leans in close to her, whispers, "I think he'd prefer your help to mine."

"Go on! It will give you time to bond and I know nothing of a lad's toys. And I cannot reach the top shelf! Benjamin, Mr. Carson will help you look for toys."

Benjamin nods his head and the pair of them wander off in search of the perfect toy. This is Charles' chance. He can talk to Benjamin about toys, about what the lad is interested in, make suggestions as to what toys would be the most fun to play with. She has a good feeling about this opportunity for the two of them and wisely decides to browse on the opposite side of the shop. Before long, she has found her way to the girl's section. One of the aisles catches her eye – an aisle filled with a variety of dolls and she doesn't care how old she is; she knows that it is perfectly acceptable to browse the aisle, to admire how far doll-making has come.

And a positive trip down memory lane is a nice way to pass the time.

* * *

They exit the shop, each holding on to something. Charles is carrying a leather football, Benjamin, a package containing his new tin soldiers and Elsie holds a teddy. It seemed cruel for Benjamin to only choose one toy – especially when he had selected a football. Charles heralded it a wonderful selection; something to keep Benjamin active and outdoors. However, it was also something that could not be played indoors, and England's weather was notoriously gloomy in winter, which would be arriving all too quickly.

Elsie told him to choose a second toy. And while they were waiting for the shopkeeper to ring them up, she spotted a teddy that would fit perfectly in the arms of a certain five year old. Ignoring Charles' look of annoyance, she solidified her decision while their items were packaged up.

_He needs something to hold on to in the middle of the night, when he wakes and doesn't remember where he is. When he misses his father; who is off fighting in Germany. When the tears fall and his mother is not there to wipe them away._

They still need to pop into the tailor's to get Benjamin's measurements and purchase his school uniform, along with a few outfits he can wear before his more fitted clothes are ready. They also need to stop into a supply shop and purchase some pencils, leather straps to hold Benjamin's school books, and other necessary supplies. Benjamin still needs to become familiar with their home, the village. He needs to be introduced to his teacher, the Bates' children – all whom have volunteered to help him during his first day of school.

There is so much to be done, but Elsie cannot allow herself to doubt, nor worry. She takes in her surroundings. The sun is shining. Benjamin is walking in between her and her husband. There is a definite spring to his step. Little milestones have been accomplished.

And although it is full of uncertainties, the future looks bright.

* * *

**I cannot thank you all enough for your reviews from the last chapter and I am so sorry I only replied to you TODAY about them. They overwhelmed me with kindness and such warm and fuzzy feelings and I can only hope this chapter makes up for the delay in replying and thanking each one of you. This chapter is a bit smaller, but the ball is rolling and the next one won't be so far behind this one (that I can _assure _you). I hope you enjoy it - and if you feel inclined, I'd love to hear from you (I even promise to respond in a timely manner)!  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**The plan was to have this out much sooner, but I've been sick and my foggy brain wouldn't allow this chapter to make any sense (it may still not, who knows). Anyway, your reviews have been and continue to be wonderful and amazing and they truly inspire me. I've really appreciated and treasured them all!**

**Tea time is apparently dinner (from 5 – 7 pm) in the servants' world - I took that from Lady Cora's quote in Season 2, "… And then starve until their tea at six." It's tough understanding all these things when you've never set foot in England.**

**Due to the fact that I'm also doing Secret Santa, this story will be on a short hiatus until I can write that ditty. One story at a time :)**

* * *

They're having soup for tea time – something simple because they were out far longer than they had anticipated. However, all the time spent completing their errands was worth it and Charles is grateful there's not much to be done tomorrow. They'll take Benjamin to church, introduce him to their friends (he still feels odd calling them that, still views them simply as the people they worked with), introduce him to the Bates' children. Show him his new school. Keeping the lad busy is key, Elsie says. It's when he's idle that he's apt to get bored. Or disheartened. And that's something they're trying their best to prevent, though admittedly Elsie is doing a much better job than he.

Charles brings in the bread and butter and sets it on the table and takes his seat across from Benjamin. He knows Elsie will only be kept by the soup a few moments longer, and that gives him a bit of time alone with the lad. They still aren't connecting and he cannot understand why. He's never had trouble with children before; in fact quite a handful of them – well. He hesitates to say love; but they cared deeply for him. His thoughts drift to Lady Mary for a moment, and though he'd never dare to disclose such information to Elsie, he finds he misses her.

Misses her more than he imagined. He misses keeping tabs on her, watching over her, giving her guidance. She doesn't visit often – and he was selfish to think she would. Or at least visit more than twice. But there it is and he's suddenly feeling quite melancholy and nostalgic and badly wishes Benjamin would disappear for a moment so he could go and hold his wife close to his heart. Remind himself that he is loved, that his life would be considerably worse off had he chosen not to retire.

His mood is not lightened in the slightest as he watches Benjamin take a slice of bread.

"What are you doing?"

"Just taking me bread and butter, sir."

"In this household, you wait until everyone is present at the table before taking some food."

"Sorry, sir."

Benjamin reaches to put back the bread and Charles raises an eyebrow.

"Where are your manners, lad? Haven't you ever been told not to put back things you've touched?"

"No, sir."

"This is your first lesson in etiquette, Benjamin. Once you touch something, it is yours. Just leave it alone until Mrs. Carson comes in."

"Yes, sir."

Charles' head is beginning to ache and he leans back, rests it against the back of his chair. Truthfully, he would be scolded for this behavior had he still been a footman, but he is not. He's a retired butler who has let his mind take him to a depressed state, whose eyes have begun to ache after being in the bright light for the majority of the day. A moment later, he hears his wife enter the room, bringing with her their soup. Begrudgingly, he opens his eyes as she sets the bowl down in front of him and takes her place to his right.

"I hope you like vegetable soup, Benjamin?"

"Yes, Mrs. Carson."

"Good. It's good for growing lads. Helps you grow big and strong."

"That's what me mum tells me too."

"Well then, your mother is a smart woman."

There are quite a few things Charles could call Benjamin's mother, however smart was most decidedly not on the list. Taking a deep breath, he lifts the lid and serves the soup; purposely serving Benjamin last. They begin to eat, and it doesn't take long for the lad to make another, more obvious error.

"Stop!"

Benjamin looks up at him, the bowl frozen just below his mouth.

"Now, you may have been hungry at lunch, I grant you that. But if you are to live in this house, you are going to learn how to properly eat like a civilized young man," he reaches down, crossly grabs his spoon and thrusts it into the air for Benjamin to observe. "This is a soup spoon. Do you see that utensil next to your arm? That is yours. Use it."

Benjamin glances down to the spoon and hesitates.

"Put the bowl down. Pick up the spoon –"

"Charles," his wife is glaring at him, hissing her disapproval. "This is hardly the way to teach anyone. You must be more patient with him."

"Elsie, my patience is –"

Her attention is no longer on him.

"Don't fret, lad. Do you understand what Mr. Carson is asking?"

Benjamin shakes his head.

"Let's start with this: do you know that this is a _soup spoon_?"

"J-just a spoon, Mrs. Carson. We calls it a spoon."

"And you know how it works?"

"Yes, sir. I use it after I drink the soup."

"No. You eat _with_ the spoon, and at no point do you ever _drink from the bowl_. Now, use it properly, please."

The rest of the meal continued in silence, something Charles was appreciative of. His headache, which he highly suspected was tension related, was slowly growing more intense. The distinct manner in which Elsie clinks her spoon against her bowl signals to him that she is _not_ happy. The lad across from him is practically too nervous to eat, however he is at least using the spoon, to which Charles feels a small victory. The day has clearly taken its toll on everyone, but he suspects his mood is the true cause for the tension that has quickly filled the room. And yet, he cannot help it. He is tired and melancholy and there is nothing he wants more than to take a headache powder and crawl into bed – though the more he thinks on that, the more he fears Elsie will banish him to the settee to sleep; something that has yet to happen in their relationship, but has happened in plenty of others around England.

He hears her chair scrape against the wooden floor.

"Elsie, let me clean up."

"No, thank you. I can manage," her voice is clipped, her frustration evident by her more pronounced accent.

He pauses a moment.

"Benjamin, go and help Mrs. Carson, please."

"Yes, sir."

The lad scrambles from his seat, in something Charles equates to eagerness. Perhaps not eager to help Elsie, but eager to escape the unsettling atmosphere that he has created. He cannot fault him. Taking in his bowl and spoon, he hands them to Benjamin, wanting to avoid Elsie's wrath and shuffles off to find his chair.

Collapsing upon it near the window, he curses his old age. He has spent too much time walking and standing today. He's not been required to do such a thing since retiring and it has clearly affected his health. Charles rarely develops migraines; that is something of his wife's specialty and over the years he has become accustomed to treating hers. Headache powder, low lighting, covering her eyes altogether with fabric, rubbing her shoulders, her neck, her eyes – something he was afraid of doing initially, fearing he'd end up blinding her, but he learned that for some peculiar reason it seemed to help.

Gingerly, he raises his fingers to his eyes and gently rubs, but finds he prefers them simply covered. He takes the palms of his hands and covers them firmly, lowers his elbows to rest on his knees.

Footsteps alert him that he is not alone, and he blearily takes his hands down, squinting at the figures of Elsie and Benjamin.

"We're going up. I'm going to draw Benjamin a bath and," she trails off, taking in the sight of him and immediately softens her voice, "get him ready for bed."

"Let me know if you need help."

Elsie nods and puts her hands on Benjamin's shoulders, "Come on, lad."

* * *

A short time later he wakes to his wife's hand on his knee, a glass of water in hand. Her head is tilted to the side, taking him in, studying him. Her disappointment, irritation has been replaced with such a loving, caring expression and he instantly feels guilty. He's the cause for their bump in the road with welcoming the lad. He's ruined the day, the positive ambiance they had created has been shattered all over a spoon and he closes his eyes tightly to escape Elsie's tender gaze.

If he weren't made of such stern stuff, he'd nearly be moved to tears.

"You look like I do when I'm suffering one of my headaches."

"I fear I feel like you do as well."

"Oh, Charles. Have you had it all day?"

"No, it just came on during tea and has grown ever sense."

"Is this why you were so cross? I was worried you had grown tired of Benjamin."

"No, Elsie. I will never do so. Honestly, I do like the lad. He seems to be very polite, very sensible. But I will admit that his lack of manners perturbs me and I lost my temper over tea."

"He isn't Master George, or Miss Sybbie. He comes from a different world. And I promise you we'll be able to teach him how to properly hold a spoon, how to use a napkin, the manners he'll need in life. You can even teach him the different serving spoons if you wish. But, you must go about it sensibly. Snapping at him and losing your patience will only impede our efforts."

Charles lets out a deep sigh, "I don't know what to do, Elsie. I feel I've ruined everything and I don't know how to fix this."

"I told Benjamin in the bath that you weren't feeling well. And that sometimes when people don't feel well, they say things they don't mean, and say things in a harsh tone. And even though I told him all this; I still think he's right out of his mind with fear."

"I'm sorry. I don't want this to be any harder for us than it already is, and I've mucked it up."

"There's no need for me to tell you that you haven't, but it can be righted. Patience, understanding, kindness – we need to practice these things whenever we teach him or reprimand him. It may not be easy at times, but I know we can manage."

"Right. I'll do my utmost and will apologize to him first thing in the morning."

Elsie hums her agreement and hands over the glass, watches him intently as he downs the contents and places her hand on his forehead, his cheek, checking for fever.

"You feel a bit warm. Let's get you to bed."

"You're not casting me off to sleep on the settee?"

"Charles, where on Earth did that come from?"

"I don't know. I just …"

"You needn't ever worry of that. You wouldn't fit the settee and I would be terribly lonely and cold without you."

She helps him up and they ascend the stairs together. Charles pokes his head in to bid an awkward goodnight to Benjamin, and is met with the same uncomfortable response. They head to their bedroom and Elsie helps him out of his clothes, turns down the bed and turns off the lights while he settles himself under the covers.

He feels her smooth over his hair and kisses his forehead gently.

"I'll be in as soon as Benjamin is in bed."

He is very fortunate to be married to a woman who so easily forgives his wrongdoings and this is not lost on him as he drowsily awaits her return.


End file.
